in a closet
by within a sepulchre
Summary: ignorance leads her to a closet, and bliss brings her out. —kristen/derrick; for laur.


gift for the spring exchange

**for-** laur (and the whispers commence)

**prompts-** "we'll have a jolly old time," holey shoes, headphones, and scribbles

**a/n-** i had a hard time writing this because the prompts didn't point at massington and that kind of hurt my inspiration levels. however, everyone needs to venture out of their comfort zone at some point and that's what i did. oh, and thanks to my hannah banana for supporting me through the process and for looking over it in sake of my sanity! laur, i hope you like this.(: (and everyone else too)

**disclaimer- **every character is lisi's and any brands and such are not mine.

**warnings- **it's just weird and mediocre. also, there's cursing.

**in a closet**

**.**

"Truth is by nature self-evident. As soon as you remove the cobwebs of ignorance that surround it, it shines clear."

_-Gandhi_

**.**

Kristen slips out of Economics and into the glossy hallways of OCD. She briefly thinks that the school is getting too fancy to even be classified as sophisticated. It's more along the lines of gaudy, if you ask her. But no one will ask her because no one cares. She shakes off her pity party and heads to the bathroom, intent on memorizing some poetry for a "pop quiz." She's halfway there when harsh, poorly-shushed whispers erupt from down the hall; she stops and slips behind a wall in alarm.

"Come on, Mass. I wasn't looking at her, I swear-" Kristen recognizes the voice as Derrick Harrington's; she knows that she should walk away, but she just can't help the urge to stay. She'd once had a crush on Derrick, though it seems like an eternity ago now.

"So, your eyes on her breasts wasn't looking at her? Last time I checked, that's the definition of looking, Der," Massie's voice is scathing and venomous, "actually, looking at any set of breasts is a form of cheating. Have you ever thought of that?"

"Look, I just told you nothing's going on-"

"Oh, but you don't deny looking at her breasts?" Massie's voice is chillingly calm.

"I-I-" Derrick's voice falters, and Kristen's heart jumps a bit. She places a hand over her chest and grimaces, a heavy bundle of nerves dropping into her stomach. She shifts uncomfortably, "I don't want to repeat myself, Mass."

"You still don't deny it."

"Massie, I'm just tired of having to answer to you about everything," Derrick says, obviously weary and frustrated with the conversation. Several seconds pass by, and all Kristen hears are the repetitive tapping of Massie's kitten heel and a long, gusty sigh from Derrick: their tension is palatable, and Kristen can't see them.

Massie clears her throat and finally speaks, "It's over, Derrick," the finality and clarity of her tone is unmistakable. A quiet moment passes.

"K," is Derrick's reply. Kristen senses sarcasm, and knows that's not going to bode over well.

"K? I break up with you, and you say 'K'?" Kristen makes a face; they might be broken up, but giving 'K' as a response isn't acceptable at anytime with anyone.

"Yeah," Derrick mumbles. Kristen foresees a storm a' brewin.'

"You must really be into her," this is enunciated quietly, very unusually so, "well, thanks to you, she's not going to be anything in this school anymore. She's going to be such a hot mess that even Lohan and Bynes will seem like angels. You just signed her LBR contract, Der-"

"Massie, don't you think you're being a little ridiculous? And LBR? We're seniors now, not middle schoolers. You should've left your lame slang shit back on the playground where it belongs," Kristen is surprised at his balls. Usually, it seems as if he's stuck far up in Massie's ass; there had been a time when she had wanted to ask him if Massie's shit stunk, but she had known that her social downfall waited at the end of the question, so she had-of course-resisted.

"Ooh, jealous that you couldn't come up with a better comeback, stammering, Der Der?" Massie's voice is feline and unctuous, and Kristen's glad that she's not in his position.

"Whatever," footsteps widen her eyes and quicken her heart, and she presses herself more tightly to the wall as Derrick's strides edge closer to her.

"Derrick, I'm not done talking!" Kristen hears an iota of desperation in Massie's voice. She almost feels sorry for her, but resists the emotion out of pure resolve. It was Massie who took Derrick from Kristen in middle school, and when it relates to Derrick, Kristen is determined to feel not one bit sorry for the crazy bitch. Actually, she never feels sorry for Massie. But that's besides the point.

"But I am," he walks past Kristen, and she turns her head away in instinct.

Thankfully, Massie doesn't pursue him, and her footsteps fade in the opposite direction, leaving Kristen with questions that she should not be concerned with; she pinpoints her curiosity with her want for gossip, and heads to the bathroom, shaking her head in bewilderment.

She doesn't get far before her foot lands in a strangely lukewarm liquid. The only reason she feels it at all is due to her _holey shoes_: Kristen is usually a well-kept person, but even she has a favorite, sentimental pair of shoes. And those shoes have a nickel-sized aperture right at the big toe. She doesn't look down out of horror; having been around her share of younger kids, Kristen knows what piss feels like, and her big toe is taking a warm, luxurious bath in it. Maybe she's wrong, and maybe it's just milk. Immediately thereafter, Kristen knows that's not it, considering milk is cold, and even if it was at a lukewarm temperature, the floor would've rapidly cooled it down. Hot, acidic pee, on the other hand, would take much longer to cool. Her suspicion is confirmed when the sour smell floods her senses: she recognizes the terrible odor of asparagus pee, and groans in frustration.

"Shit," she whispers coarsely, stomping her other dry, considerably more hygienic foot. Laughter echoes from the hall beside her, and she watches as Kemp Hurley and Chris Plovert skip from behind their water fountain hideout to make their way to the men's bathroom. They stop to take a picture. She tries to duck and hide her face, but her foot slips portentously, and she decides to not chance any more sudden movements. The camera flashes brightly and lands squarely on her face.

"How do you like the smell of that piss, Gregory?" They cackle and dash into the bathroom. Kristen wonders why no one in class has needed a bathroom break, but she must admit that she's extraordinarily thankful. The stupid idiots had decided to plant a senior prank in the hallways. And the prank was pee. Really, pee? She shakes her head at their stupidity (though she must admit that the asparagus touch is _kind of _genius), and opens her trusty book bag; she rifles through and finds a napkin and some hand sanitizer. Mid-cleaning, a door bangs open from behind her, and she jumps up; her helpless foot that hovers in an advantageous, yet awkward position, quivers and crumbles under her trembling body. She falls hard, her butt bone banging excruciatingly hard against the hardwood.

Footsteps jog her way, "Whoa, are you okay?" Cliché alert! It was bound to be him who found her, she realizes. Derrick approaches her, and she puts her hand to her forehead in exasperation.

"No, I'm not okay. I have, like 5000 lines of poetry to learn, my coccyx is hurting really badly, and I'm reclining in piss."

"Your what's hurting?" He inquires.

"My ass, Derrick," she answers robotically, reminding herself that no one likes anatomy except for her and that she should just get over everyone's ignorance of the human body.

A few seconds pass, and he's silent.

"Well, are you gonna help me up or should I just sit here til Mr. Darden finds me?" She jabs at the lowest volume manageable.

"Yeah, we wouldn't want him 'helping you up,'" she thinks she hears a smile, but she decides to ignore that because this situation is not funny. It's not funny one bit. The school security guy should be courteous, not a perverted, handsy pedo.

She's on her feet when he asks, fear creeping into his voice, "Did you get some of the pee on your hand?" He glances at her damp palm.

"No, that's sanitizer." A quick silence pass in which she wipes her hands on her shirt and in which Derrick opens and closes his mouth before finally posing his question:

"So, why is there pee on the floor?" He appears uncomfortable and averts her gaze.

"It's a Hurley/Plovert original," she smiles cynically while he meets her eyes and nods in understanding, "you gotta love dumb asses." She's surprised that he doesn't attest her statement, since he's really close to them and all, but he stays quiet.

"Hey, I don't think that's gonna be enough," he motions to her napkins and sanitizer, "the janitor's closet will have something we can use to get you cleaned up."

She cocks her head, "Why are you helping me, Derrick? We don't even talk to each other."

"What? We're friends, aren't we?" His gaze is solid and confused; she thinks that it might just be in her head, but she swears he's mocking her. Kristen has found that she does have hypochondriac tendencies.

"If you consider that passing each other in the hallway makes us friends, then you must have a lot of friends," she replies slyly.

He shrugs, "I just thought it was an automatic thing, you being old friends with Massie-"

Her eyes dart away at his mentioning Massie, and she crosses her arms. Derrick spots this flicker of guilt and grabs her shoulder, "How long have you been out here?"

"I don't know," she mumbles, a flush billowing through her cheeks, "three minutes?"

He stares at her suspiciously, his brown eyes sharp and prodding, and Kristen starts at how intense Derrick can be. She bites her lip in a fierce effort to not look away.

He suddenly plasters on a Cheshire grin and motions to the closet a few steps away, "Well, there it is."

She doesn't get the chance to tell him thank you and to let her handle it. He opens the door with his long, vein-strewn arm and pushes her in with his free hand, sliding himself after her. The door closes, and a coal black darkness surrounds her. She doesn't mind darkness, but she prefers a fresh atmosphere, not an acrid one.

"Derrick, are you going to turn on the light sometime this year?"

"Yeah, hold on," a click later, and a fluorescent light shudders to life. She hates this kind of illumination: it washes her out and brings attention to the mangled, pink scar that inhabits the oily place right under her lip-a gift from soccer.

Kristen stares at his face and inwardly grumbles: despite the sharp lighting, his olive skin still shines, exuding youth and good health. Damn, she wonders how many avocado facials he's had to have such smooth, luminescent skin.

"Kris?" Derrick waves a hand in front of her eyes, "I know I'm beautiful, but you're making me uncomfortable staring at me like that."

She blinks quickly and snaps, "I was not staring at you!"

"Yeah, you were-"

"I think I know where I was looking," she pauses, scrambling for an excuse, "I was actually looking at that huge bottle of Clorox behind you," she nods matter-of-factly.

"I don't think you were," he says slowly, glancing over his shoulder at the bottle.

She adds snidely, "And I'm surprised you haven't volunteered to pose in one of the college art classes."

"Why would I do that?"

"Cause you love being looked at!" She runs her hand over her ponytail, unleashing her mane of hair on her shoulders. When she thinks about it, and she has-several times in actuality-she finds that her hair and Derrick's are almost identical. Both are blond, muddy-streaked, wispy. She shakes the meaningless comparison out of her thoughts and arches an expectant eyebrow.

"Agree to disagree," he says quietly, turning to grab the Clorox.

She suddenly feels guilty; maybe she's being too argumentative, considering his girlfriend just dropped him and he's cleaning pee off a girl he doesn't really even know.

"Derrick, I'm sorry; I wasn't trying to be antagonistic or anything," she states, placing a hand on his shoulder, "I know you're going through some tough shit right now."

He whips around, eyes boring a hole through her, "What shit are you referring to?"

Her hand is still on his shoulder somehow, and she removes it quickly, her eyes flicking from his face down to her pee-soaked shoe, "I-I-know that you got injured during a game a few weeks ago, and I know you've been fighting with your friends and stuff like that. I mean, I know it's hard stuff to deal with," she pauses nervously, "I just wish you the best of luck.. with all of it." As aforementioned, Kristen is usually a well-kept person, not only physically, but also mentally. Her GPA is enviable, and her SAT scores exist only in dreams. She's excellent at recitations, at monologues, at presentations, at public speaking, in general. But now some insecure, rambling monster has taken a hold on her tongue, and she feels it clinging onto her shaking insides, ready for a meandering ride.

His eyes widen, and he laughs loudly; she quickly peeks out of the door, but all's quiet and peaceful in the ornate halls of the school.

After a few seconds, she breaks, "What?" It takes all of her restraint to keep it at one word.

He leans back against a shelf, arms crossing in the stereotypical meathead pose. A smirk begins to cross his face, but is quickly halted when the shelf he's made himself comfortable with begins to wobble against his weight and throws its contents all over him.

He stands, appearing statuesque, as every cleaning tool and supply imaginable bangs against his shoulders, and topples to the floor. Each object sounds like a gunshot to her, but, peeking out of the door, she finds the hallways to be empty.

He winces as a dustpan hits his head, and Kristen tries to retain the urge to laugh, but it bubbles, churns, and christend itself to the surface, and before she can clamp a hand over her mouth, it bursts out, bounces off the walls, escapes into the halls, and alerts China of its existence.

He steps forward, his face blank, and puts a smooth palm over her mouth; she wants to lick his hand, but she knows that's five year old behavior, so she doesn't do that. But she really wants to. She giggles into his hand, tears cascading into her eyes.

He looks at her, and smiles: it's genuine, and she feels warmth from it. She wants to pull away from him, but she doesn't. If there's one thing Kristen truly hates, it's mixed emotions.

He finally speaks, his eyes dark and knowing, "You're a terrible liar, Kristen."

She replies simply, "I don't know what you mean."

He rolls his eyes, "Come on, I know you heard me and Massie.. talking."

"I didn't hear anything-"

"Cut the shit, Kris," he says sharply. His look is almost threatening, and Kristen gets the strange feeling that if she lies to him again, something drastic is going to happen. Not violent drastic, but emotional drastic. Or something.

"Okay, yeah, I heard you two," she murmurs, ashamed.

"And?"

She can't look at him, " 'And' what?"

"And how much did you hear?"

"The breaking up part," she replies, sighing.

He's quiet for a while. She doesn't want to see his expression: she figures it's probably pretty crushed or shocked or incredulous; maybe even angry. God, she hopes not. That would really suck-

"I've wanted to break up with her for a long time, and I think she knew it, ya know?" Derrick inserts suddenly, and Kristen raises her head to stare at his shrugging expression, "I guess I'm just glad it's all over."

She nods slightly, not sure what to do. The confusion rushing through her is throwing off her thoughts; her heart is heaving, and there's this tingly lightness flowing along her limbs. Kristen recognizes it as excitement and hope; she blinks really hard as her stomach clenches, and she tries to deny what she's feeling, but it's staking its claim, and is resolved to haunt her until she dies-or that's what it feel like, anyway. All the signs are telling her what she's been hiding from, and it's that she's never stopped crushing on Derrick Harrington. Now she's standing awkwardly in a closet with him as he tells her that his relationship is over, and that he's actually happy about that! And that there's this girl who's just been on his mind all the time- her heart pumps faster.

"What did you say?"

He stops, "Didn't you hear Massie accusing me of looking at a girl's, uh, breasts?"

"Yeah," she chuckles uncomfortably.

"Well, I wasn't looking at her breasts; I-I-was actually-"

For some reason, Kristen can't stand the wait, "Is it Dylan? Claire? Olivia? Alicia?"

The last one strikes the match, and she watches him nod slowly; sadness fills her up and drops her off at an empty bus stop with no money and with no friends and with no one who loves her. She shakes her head at her imagination.

"She's just everything I look for in a girl," he says clearly, "she has my heart and she's had it for a long time, though she doesn't know it." Kristen can't help but think how ironic that is.

He looks at her expectantly, a strange glint in his eye, "What else?" She asks weakly.

"She's got this kick ass laugh, and she loves everything British," he stops to ponder, his feet shifting among all the cleaning supplies, "she's so pretty, and everyone's jealous of her. But she doesn't know that either." Kristen stopped being friends with Alicia a long time ago, but if there's one thing Kristen knows, it's that Alicia knows how pretty she is. Kristen guesses his inattentiveness is due to the fact of him being a male. Boys just don't pay attention, sometimes.

"She loves picnics, but hates ants," Kristen freezes and glances at him, but his face is turned away in a concentrated expression, his even lips pursed slightly in contemplation; everything he's saying is similar to her own likes and dislikes, "she hates easy classes, and is actually a really nice person, though she doesn't like to admit it."

Kristen intervenes hopefully, "We are talking about Alicia here, right?"

" 'Course," he replies, a smarmy grin on his face.

"But I don't think she's like anything you said," she quips, regretting her statement. That little monster is on her tongue again.

"Huh," he says confusedly; something about his tone is mocking, but she shrugs it off as a typical Derrick quirk, "she does have a good rack though."

"Derrick!" She slaps his arm, "I thought you were serious this whole time."

He laughs and pulls her to him, his face close to hers. He stops smiling, and his brown eyes glimmer. His hands are warm on her waist, and Kristen is aware of this, and her drumming heart and the clamminess of her palms and her _hope_; he lets the situation sit and simmer before he starts, "But I-"

The bell rings, and his sentence is cut off.

She's sorely disappointed and emotions roar through her as she informs him, "I have to go; I really can't miss this Calculus review-"

"Do you have a pen?" He asks loudly, keeping their tight position. She tries to pull away, but he's steadfast.

She's taken aback, "Uh, yeah; let me get my bag." She shoots him a strange look, grabbing a pencil out of a pocket.

"A pencil?" He inquires, a film of disgust on his face.

Her eyes widen, "What's wrong with pencils?"

He sighs, "I just like things more permanent."

She smirks as she withdraws a pink ink pen and hands it to him, "Satisfied?"

"Yep; thanks," he says quickly, slipping a piece of paper out of his back pocket.

"Derrick, I've got to go-"

"But we haven't cleaned up the pee on you yet," he drawls. She hides her smile at his teasing.

"Look, I need to prove that I have a reason for being inside a janitor's closet so cleaning myself up is pointless at the moment, and I'm sure that other people have stepped in it by-"

Shrill screams pierce the school in correlation with her remark.

"I'd better get out there," she adds. Kristen notices his silence and find him busy writing. He _scribbles_ in long scrawls on the back of a detention slip, and holds up a long finger, "c'mon, Derrick; hurry up."

He jumps up, looks around at the mess, and shoots an inquiring glance her way; she smiles dimly, "I'll take care of it. And don't worry: no one will find out about this. I'll go out first and distract everyone, and you can slip out.. Kapish?"

He just stares at her and before she can move or say anything, he shoves the piece of paper in her hand and dashes out of the door. She knows that someone had to have seen him go, but when she looks out, everyone's surrounding blonde Claire Lyons as she furiously scrubs off the pee stains on her jeans.

Kristen returns to the closet and begins stocking the shelves; she rips off a paper towel and retrieves some sanitary wipes, applying them to her butt. She'd almost forgotten about the note amidst her cleaning frenzy, but having almost torn it to bits, she pulls it out of her pocket, throwing her pair of broken _headphones _in the trash.

_Kris,_

_It's always been you._

_-Derrick_

_Ps. This idea is lame as fuck, I know. I'm just not the poetic type._

Shit. Kristen has no idea what to think, but she knows one thing and it's that she sure is hell isn't letting him get away without an explanation.

She runs out into the hall, ignoring the weird looks and Claire's pathetic whimpering, and heads to the men's bathroom. She guesses he knew that she'd look for him because he's right around the corner, leaning on his locker.

She opens her mouth to speak, but he interrupts, "So, I was thinking that hill behind my house would be a perfect first date."

She smiles, unbelievably elated, "Derrick, I think it might be too soon."

"Ah, come on, Kris. _We'll have a jolly old time," _he returns the grin and sidles up next to her.

"Maybe, but-"

"No more 'buts,' Kris," he commands softly.

She hasn't smiled this much in a day ever. But it feels right, and she wouldn't want to change a thing.

**.**

Derrick likes soccer, good hair, and dark skies.

Kristen likes soccer, good hair, and dark skies.

The theory states, "Opposites attract, and likes repel,"; there are rebels to every scientific fact. Ask the miracles.

**.**

**a/n-** so that was extremely lame and mushy (especially, the ending, ugh), but i hope you guys liked it, anyway. review?

-livvy


End file.
